


Grief and Mourning (The Reylo Triptych)

by rey_sith_stance



Series: The Reylo Triptych [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate version of TROS, Based on Colin Trevorrow's Screenplay for IX, Duel of the Fates, Duel of the Fates (Un-Filmed Screenplay), F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Oral Sex, POV Rey (Star Wars), Porn with Feelings, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Smut, Sort Of, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Fix-It, Trevorrow Script
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23521642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rey_sith_stance/pseuds/rey_sith_stance
Summary: Wrong, she thinks.Shouldn’t have come here.She holds her hand between her breasts like a wounded bird.No right to see this.  Have to leave…But then her shadow leaps up before her, backlit by crimson.A lightsaber sizzles to life behind her.“You look very beautiful, Rey.”
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: The Reylo Triptych [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691389
Comments: 8
Kudos: 105





	Grief and Mourning (The Reylo Triptych)

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on details from the leaked Colin Trevorrow script for Star Wars IX. Rey uses the Force bond to slip into Kylo's quarters after Leia's death.

Grief and Mourning

The Reylo Triptych

The lights are off when she enters his chambers: nighttime in the artificial womb of the flagship. It’s a relief. She’s been here once before. It was too bright, too white, too antiseptic. This dim, vaguely blue interior is gentler, soothing, or it would be if it weren’t an enemy stronghold. She can tell, too, that the place is deserted. But she’s done nothing to disguise herself. He’ll be here soon.

She’s come unarmed. An instinct. Respectful, in this time of grief. Probably suicidal, but she doesn’t believe he’ll try to kill her tonight. There’s still light in him, no matter what he says. Burned down to cooling embers but not gone. Their bond is too close for him to lie to her. If she comes to him, open, that hint of light may expand.

Rey wipes her tired eyes. She’s been crying most of the last few hours. Her simple, soft gown is a comfort to her even if it is the black of mourning. It fits here, in these shadowy chambers, the muted sapphire light, the cold stars gleaming outside. She spends a few moments gazing out at the universe before the soft chill of his quarters starts to get to her. 

She paces, waiting, minutes ticking by, her body torn between alertness and weariness. An air vent hisses softly in the dark, its stirrings making her heart leap to her throat. But it’s not the pneumatic hiss of sliding doors or the soft scrape of a cloak-hem on the shining floor and, after a while, she finds herself relaxing a little, curiosity getting the better of her.

This chamber, without furniture or human trappings of any kind, could be a tomb awaiting its occupant. It serves only as a kind of exalted receiving chamber for the warren of smaller rooms she senses farther back. She tiptoes in that direction, certain no one is here, but on guard anyway, knowing she’s trespassing. The ceiling slants down to a normal scale and a narrow hallway crosses her path, running left to right. A sealed doorway, one with an access panel, sits at each end and, between them, open, is a wide, rounded doorway. The air feels just a shade warmer there. The slightest bit humid as if it has known life. As she stands in the hallway, triangulated by the three doors, she breathes in and realizes, with a start, that she’s breathing _him_.

She backs up, suddenly regretting her decision to come unarmed. The scent is faint but somehow intimate. It’s the smell of sleep and discarded clothes. Something sharper beneath it. Spices? Blood? It calls to her even as her mind sends a warning—and there’s no fighting her traitor heart. Despite all she knows, despite the chattering in her mind, she goes right to it, right down into the dark. 

There are two small steps and then her feet are on carpet—some beautiful synth material that cancels all sound. She can’t even hear the engines of the ship anymore, just her uneven breath, her roaring blood. She lets herself pad across the room until she stands above Kylo Ren’s bed. 

Here it is: a circular pool of darkness, wide and low slung, waiting in the dark. Two lamps burn low, set into the walls, needing a spoken command to brighten. The chamber too is round and simple. Elegant black couches, elegant synth table. There are things piled on the single chair beside it that she realizes, with a kind of giddy horror, are his clothes. The smell of him is everywhere. Leather, not spice. Faint damp from a hidden ‘fresher. He’s washed his hair here, cleaned the blood from his body, lain down in this simple, luxurious bed. The rumpled black sheets aren’t what she expected—nor so much room to loll around. Five people could fit here if they wanted. She finds herself wondering if five people _have_. Five pale bodies writhing on these sheets, five swimmers in a luxuriant sea of darkness…

She winces at the direction her thoughts are taking. Ren has this effect on her. She’s not an innocent, not coming from a place like Jakku—yet, before him, her fantasies have been tame. Soft kisses and embraces and holding hands. Things you do in daylight. Small affections. It’s only since she’s been a part of this conflict that her thoughts on such activities have grown more specific.

She does her best to keep desire at bay. Whatever the Force is doing with her and Ren isn’t healthy. She’s a warrior of light, he’s a warrior of darkness. They aren’t supposed to feel so _close_ to one another.

So thinks Rey as, holding her breath like a lifeline, she bends to touch her adversary’s bed.

Rumpled black sheets. Satin-sheen from the low-lights. Part of her was convinced he slept on a bed of nails. There’s a bit of the decadent in him, then. Her brief touch reveals an enviably supple mattress. What she wouldn’t give to sleep on something like this in this low, silent place, with no companions but the stars. Not that she doesn’t love her new friends, but bedtime with a rebel encampment is, at best, muted chaos. There are times she even misses the howling sands of her home world, brushing around the shell of the rusting AT-AT. Her dreams would transform that sound into lapping waves, into rivulets washing gently at the shores of an island.

The familiar vision relaxes her a moment. Her palm sinks a little farther into the mattress. This is an island too. His sanctuary. Where he goes to think of nothing…

…or think of her.

She jerks her hand back but it’s already too late. Images swarm up through the bond. His white body tosses, unable to sleep, the sheets tangling, heartbeat erratic in his throat. He sleeps naked, she realizes. She can see it. Bare chest, rigid abdominal muscles…

This used to be a place of recovery for him. Now he curses, fighting her memory as he slides a hand down…

_…want you…_ comes across the bond. And:

_…damn you…._

_…kill you…_

_…need you…_

_…Rey…_

A sting of pleasure—distant, clearly his—zings along the bond like a trail of sparks. Helplessly he pleasures himself, holding her always in his mind. She can see his long throat as he works himself, his face hidden by the fan of his raven hair. She sees other things too. Other bodies in his bed. Other women he has taken to try and satisfy his need.

They all look like her as he bends them over.

They all look like her, trapped and wailing in his arms.

The blood is palpable, rushing to her face, beating so hard she feels the pulse in her temples.

 _Wrong_ , she thinks. _Shouldn’t have come here._ She holds her hand between her breasts like a wounded bird.

_No right to see this. Have to leave…_

But then her shadow leaps up before her, backlit by crimson.

A lightsaber sizzles to life behind her.

“You look very beautiful, Rey.”

The base of her spine clenches tight with that voice. No mask on. The unfiltered softness of his tone. Not the terrifying dark knight of forests and snowfields. The voice of firelight, shatter truces, and thrones…

“Ben,” she begins to say.

“Don’t turn around.” The saber thrums. His aura breathes of grief and fury. He knows about Leia. He hates how he _feels_. 

“Your mother,” Rey persists. The words wring out her heart but she’s come this far and she still has to say it.

“I felt it,” says Kylo Ren. Ben Solo. Whoever he is. Whoever he _really_ is. His voice thickens over those three, clipped words. She knows, suddenly, why he doesn’t want her to look at him.

She turns. Defiance is in her nature. The blade is a hair’s breadth from her throat. She slides away from it, blinks past that throbbing Sith light, and sees that strangely beautiful face regarding her from the doorway. A liquid glitter in eyes that seem black but that she knows are an endless hazel green. The faintest tremor in his soft wide mouth. He’s wept today and he’s angry. A loaded trap about to spring.

“Wait--” she protests as he catches her eavesdropping. “I didn’t--”

“You did.” He whips the blade to his side. His long cloak flows down the steps with him. He is a creature of darkness, of the shadows themselves. “You saw it all, didn’t you, just now? Took everything you could get from me.” The blade barely nudges towards the bed but she knows what he means. Knows exactly.

Every profanity she knows streaks through her head—and a flush of shame that brings the tears to her eyes. She’s disgusting—rifling through him this way. She needs to go now. Sever the bond. Find somewhere to hide. 

She starts to release the bond and fade—and the air changes, thickens, holding her in place.

_What…?_

Ren hasn’t moved. The saber still spits and hums in one hand. Red. Red. It limbs his cheek. The scarred one. Runs down the seam like blood.

Rey struggles—but what is she struggling against? This must be the Force, but it’s vast, huge. The effort should be draining him. But if anything, he seems stronger, more assured.

“What will I see if I look in _your_ head, Rey?” He drifts closer and peers into her face. “Murder, maybe? Assassination?” He raises a hand. “Let’s find out.” 

“No!” she shouts.

But he clenches his fist and his lips curl in a snarl as he reached towards her.

A pair of ebony claws tear through her mind, snatching and raking at her thoughts. It’s his anger that has made him so powerful. He shears through her defenses the way his blade might shear through flesh. 

_The shock the first time she saw him. Just a boy..._

_His body, shirtless, replayed in her head. She’s imagined tracing her fingers down his chest, stroking a light, burning line to his navel…_

“No…” Her voice is a weak shudder. She could fight him if she hadn’t been crying all day. Everyone is mourning Leia’s death, the loss of the light at the center of their world. The center of _her_ world—spun away. Everyone who should have sheltered her is gone.

Unwilling sympathy rushes across the bond—but he’s not done yet. He wrenches and pulls. Control is torn shrieking from Rey’s grasp like a plant uprooted to reveal the dark hollow beneath.

 _Her hand, naked, slides into his, gloved. Black leather fingers enclose her and squeeze…_ It never happened but part of her _wanted_ it to. Part of her imagined a different outcome. A drawing in, not a tearing away. A moment in which they both surrendered to their bond. Where the Force and desire dragged them to their knees, their limbs entwined in a snarl of selfish pleasure. 

_His mouth on hers..._

_Her mouth on his..._

_Her fingers tearing eagerly at his clothing..._

_And later: the pair of them in a room like this. The whisper of carpet under her knees. She’s never taken a man in her mouth but she knows that women do this. She’s wondered how he tastes…._

She gasps, trying to escape. _His hard length in her mouth, thick and silken. His narrow hips rocking into the pleasure. The abrupt warmth as he bursts across her lips and chin._

“Oh.” Suddenly the saber-light is gone. She opens her eyes and he’s looking at her. He still holds her with the Force but the grip is shifting---fingers adjusting on the hilt of a sword. There’s something close to wonder in his eyes. Has he never thought that she might want him that way?

The saber falls. His gloved hand brushes her cheek.

“Is that all?” he asks. “Is that all you want?”

His other hand is white, naked. He finds some cunningly concealed tab and loosens his doublet. A flap falls back and soon the garment is hanging, exposing a chest as hard and white as marble.

“Why would you be ashamed of that?” he whispers, drawing his thumb slowly along her jaw. His mouth is close now. His lashes sweep downward, veiling his eyes as he drinks her in through her gown. She needs no bond to feel his desire. She could touch it. All she has to do is reach.

“Do it, Rey. I want you to. I’m not ashamed to say what I want.”

“Ben,” she says. “I …I only came to tell you--”

“You came here for comfort.”

“No. I came here from _grief_.”

“People grieve in different ways.” He grips her wrist and guides her hand inside his shirt. She trembles at the feel of him: the slight roughness of his skin, the silken round of his nipple. He holds himself still, allowing these explorations—and suddenly she realizes that she’s lost this particular war.

“If you were mine, you could touch me whenever you wanted,” he says. He starts to touch her now, his fingers caressing her nape. Through the bond he shares a picture of what he’s describing: Her mouth open in pleasure as he screws her to his bed.

The ferocity of his desire is terrifying. Her pulse spikes. She feels as if she might swoon. She can’t fight this. Not weak and grief-worn as she is. Grief’s a cold, starved thing but he’s so _warm_...

“Put your mouth on me, Rey,” Kylo whispers. “Put it all over me. Give me everything…”

He draws her in, arms enveloping her against his chest, hands restless, shaping her, kneading her though her clothes. When he kisses her, it is wet and sleek: plundering her and begging to be plundered. He cups her to him, his hand on the swell of her buttock, and strokes against her, centering his cock against her mound—and then he’s stripping her, dragging the gown from her shoulders, kissing down her throat until he can melt his tongue against her breast.

The whole time he’s feeding her back her fantasies as if all these acts are happening at once.

_Rey on her knees to him, swallowing him. Sucking and licking. Inexpert but sweet._

_His moans as he spills into her mouth, as he splits her along the length of his cock._

A tear—his, she thinks—runs wetly into her mouth. His tongue is so sweet, so skilled, so distracting. He holds her so close she has to snake her arms between them, fight past him to undo the clasp of his belt. Somehow, she unlatches it, slips a hand into his trousers, grasps his sex. It’s hard and warm and impossibly thick, rising from its nest of wiry hair.

He cries out then, and suddenly he’s lifting her, cradling her against him as he struggles towards the bed. He drops her down then grips her neck with strong fingers as he fumbles, frantic, between his legs. She helps him with his pants, stripping them away. He’s lost his gloves. His body is so lovely and hard. She rests her cheek against the tight packed muscles of his abdomen, mouths him there for just a moment as her hand encircles his cock. He’s so huge she’ll never get all of him in her mouth—but when he gasps for her to open, she obeys. His head tilts back as she begins to explore him and his hands thread and pull, restive, through her hair. 

As she takes him he shows her a hundred other things. A hundred things they could do to one another. Within the moments she has him quaking with pleasure. Her own sex is swollen and wet between her legs.

 _Throat,_ he’s thinking. _I can teach you. But not now. Not now. Let me go, let me take you…_

She withdraws. Her mouth is wet and soft. Mellowed with the taste of him. A faint trace of salt burns the back of her tongue. She needs to touch herself, to ease the urgent pulse between her legs.

Kylo is inarticulate. His thoughts and desires pour madly through the bond.

… _take you. Fuck you. Want you. Always…_

In his mind he is spreading her from behind. 

In the present, he is gentler—but seething with passion, lowering her beneath him and sheathing himself at a stroke. Her back arches off the bed, hips jamming into him, fitting herself against him, so tight... His movements nudge and rasp her clit, building a sharp pleasure that makes her moan.

 _Seconds_ , she thinks. _Won’t last seconds_. She claws at him, suddenly desperate for it to last.

He must want the same thing for he embraces the Force. Time slows. Their bodies slow and glide. They’re still on the bed, but also someplace deeper, some midnight realm that lives only in their minds. Here each breath is exquisite, each touch electric, each stab of pleasure magnified. Kylo gathers her close, his hair curtaining her face, and rocks into her with jagged little circles.

_It’s all right. It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. Just give in to me. Just let go. Rey…_

His mind is deeper inside her than he is and she’s letting him, giving him her most forbidden thoughts. 

How she wants him, fears him, longs for him. 

How she wishes for surrender.

Where she wants his mouth.

“Rey…” he pants. He kisses her as though to drown her, finds every tender place to nip and suck. He drinks up her little keening cries and drives into her to create more. She can’t tell where she is, where her hands are. Holding him? Fisted in his hair? Can this really be happening? Her teeth scraping his jaw?

Her legs wrap him, her cunt clenching him until he shudders and starts to spill…

When they come together his thumb is smoothing her lip, stroking a slow counterpoint to the violence farther down. She sobs her pleasure and grief into his palm as her body shatters, deliciously out of control. 

_Yes_ , he’s thinking as he follows her, _you’re so sweet and so tight and so wet and so good…_

And then his mind shatters. The Force shatters them. The room is hushed and he is warm and wet in her arms.

“Please stay,” he says when the room has stopped spinning. “Please. I know you have to…but just …for awhile…” It’s as if all the poison that is Kylo Ren has been drained away by their lovemaking. There’s only the man now. The boy. Sated. Exhausted and weakened from passion and grief.

Sprawled next to him, Rey is drained too. She couldn’t use this to her advantage if she tried.

So: “Yes,” she says, kissing the top of his head—his dark hair now pillowed luxuriantly on her breast. “Yes. For a moment. I can stay.”

He squeezes her hip. In a moment he is sleeping. 

The last thing Rey does before she leaves him there, before she slips back through the Force to her own lonely bed, is bend to kiss the sweet corner of his mouth where his tear tracks have dried in long streaks of salt.

_Fin._


End file.
